


Sapling

by joinedunderprotest



Series: At Storm's End a.k.a. the Uncleverse [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Missionary Position, this is two thirds pretentious angst and one third porn and light, yes i know they're two kinky shits but sometimes you just need it sweet and vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinedunderprotest/pseuds/joinedunderprotest
Summary: Arya comes back. Maybe they fuck it up a little bit at first, but they get it right in the end.





	Sapling

**Author's Note:**

> The woodpecker did it again.

As Master of Ships, Lord of the Rainwood, and the closest thing to a father figure the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands has got, Ser Davos Seaworth has had his fair share of mad shit thrown at him. He’s found that unless it goes against his conscience, his best bet is to put his head down and work through it.

So when the King of the Six Kingdoms suggests he take Arya Stark, the world’s greatest hero, on a trip to Storm’s End with him, Davos just sort of goes along with it.

The Lady Arya’s appearance in King’s Landing was and wasn’t expected. She was known to have returned to Westeros, but she’d docked in Oldtown, allowing the maesters at the Citadel to spend a good month questioning her about her world-changing travels. They were wanting to know not just about the sailing – which surely must have been exceptional, if she got her crew around the world in one piece in only two years – but about the lands she’d seen across the sea. Asshai, Yi-Ti – people had been, even the Westerosi, but it was different knowing they were _there_, west of them, and so much easier to reach.

Everyone figured when the maesters had been appeased, she would sail from Oldtown to King’s Landing, for a hero’s – hero twice over, no less – welcome.

But the Lady seems to take some perverse pleasure in doing what no one ever expects of her, so, without writing ahead, she disbanded the expedition, bestowed her magnificent wolf ship on her second-in-command, and procured a horse in order to ride the Rose Road to King’s Landing alone, declaring she was done with sailing.

She passed through the gates of the city unremarked, somehow bluffed her way past the Red Keep’s guards – which is alarming, and security will have to be tightened, Davos suspects – and strolled into the Small Council chamber, greeting King Brandon as casually as if they had been apart two days instead of two years.

Davos’s first thought, after the requisite surprise, was relief to see her looking well. In the little time he’d known her at Winterfell, he had decided that although she kept an iron grip on her feelings, she had some of the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. And he was a man who saw Jon Snow every day.

But when she walked into the council chamber she looked, well, certainly not carefree, but perhaps more at peace. She scanned the room for threats, he noted, but her eyes didn’t constantly jump around as though there was a danger in every shadow and every face. Her years at sea had done her good, it seemed to him.

Maester Tarly looked delighted at the sight of her and pelted her with questions at once, but she grew tired of that quickly enough. When she finally gave him a look that silenced him, save for a noisy gulp, Davos stepped in, asking how her crew was recovering. This earned him a (probably) genuine smile, a few minutes of chatter about the crew’s great willingness to recover in a city famous for its fragrant fruits and its willing whores, and an invitation to dine with her and her brother that evening.

The inclusion of her brother was, he imagined, mostly a courtesy, some vestige of sisterly affection. The King was no one’s first choice for a dining partner, given his tendency to stare blankly into space for long stretches of time, only to join in at random moments with some puzzling or occasionally bone-chilling comment. Still, Davos gratefully accepted, and the three sat down to a private meal.

They talked some more of her ship and her crew, and then Davos happened to mention that he was glad she had arrived that day, as the Council was dissolving for the season and would leave the city in the morning.

“What will you do, then, Ser Davos?” Arya asked, peering at him over her wine. “Will you go home to your own lands?”

“Aye, m’lady, though not directly,” said Davos, cutting into his beef. He always paid close attention when using a knife and fork, for fear of losing the fingers on his other hand as well. Without looking up, he added, “I’ll journey to Storm’s End first.”

“Oh?”

“To look in on young Lord Baratheon.” He looked up, lifting a bite to his mouth. “You must have known him at Winterfell, isn’t that right? I remember that very fine spear you were using to mow down the dead. Before he rose up to lordship, Gendry was the best of craftsmen.”

“Yes, I knew him there.” Arya took a sip of her wine. “You’re right, he did make me that spear. Is he as good a lord as he was a smith?”

Davos nodded. “He works hard, that one. He needs a lot of help learning the ropes, from me and from his new men, but he’s willing to put the effort in, unlike that father of his.”

“Well, ‘better than Robert’ isn’t a terribly high bar,” said Arya with a faint smile, “but it’s good to hear he’s so dedicated.”

“He is,” Davos agreed. “Learning his letters and the running of a kingdom, trying to keep the people fed. He’s even seeing to the repairs of Storm’s End. Renly allowed the curtain wall fall into such a state, and Stannis let the Red Woman destroy the godswood to please her god. Now Gendry’s having the wall fixed, and the King was kind enough to send a weirwood sapling so the heart tree can sprout once more.”

“He’s going to need it,” volunteered King Brandon, but when Davos and Arya watched him expectantly, he didn’t elaborate. Davos had often wondered if perhaps the other Starks were more capable of understanding the King and his strange ways, but Arya didn’t seem to follow any more than he did.

“Well, you’ve convinced me, Ser Davos,” Arya declared, turning back to him. “It sounds like the Lord Paramount is doing remarkable work. That’s good. It’s very good. But if he’s so outstanding, why bother looking in on him?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m just fond of the lad,” said Davos. Arya raised her eyebrows in concession. It was easy to be fond of Gendry. “For another, hardworking he may be, but he still needs guidance. I’m planning on talking to him on the subject of his marriage.”

Arya looked at him and blinked her fathomless eyes. She was not as sad as she once was, but she had become no easier to read.

“His marriage,” she repeated. “Of course.”

She looked to her empty cup and poured herself a drink, taking a long draught of it. Catching Davos’s eye, she refilled his cup as well, and then took another drink from her own.

“So his marriage,” she said again, staring into her wine. “I’ve been away for so long, and I never kept up with Westerosi gossip. Is he married already or merely betrothed?”

“Neither, m’lady, and that’s the problem,” Davos grumbled, taking a swig.

She looked up, and he saw real confusion seep through her mask. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” clarified Davos, “that I’m going to talk to him, _again_, about settling down and finally looking for a wife. He’s been putting it off for too long.”

Arya tilted her head ever so slightly. “But how can he still be unattached? He’s Warden of the South. Bastard or not, every house for a thousand miles must be desperate to have him for a goodson.”

“Oh, they are, and no mistake. He gets ten proposals a week. But he won’t even hear a word about them.”

_“Why?” _She leaned forward, looking baffled. He didn’t blame her. It was baffling, at least if you didn’t know the story behind it.

“Just between you and me, m’lady — and the King,” he added, even though the odds were poor said king was even in the same room as them, mindwise, “I think he lost a woman.”

Arya sat back in her chair, picking at the edge of the table. “When you say ‘lost’…”

“I mean she must have died,” Davos explained gravely. “I don’t know if he met a girl up North or if he had a sweetheart back in Flea Bottom he never mentioned, but—”

Arya stood abruptly, chair scraping, and went to stand at the window. She rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold.

Davos realised his error a moment too late. She had been there, in Flea Bottom, hadn’t she? Strolled in with the Hound and came out alone, covered in blood and ash. She wouldn’t want to be reminded of it.

Or maybe it was the other part. Had the poor girl had a fellow of her own in the North, lost to the armies of the dead? She certainly hadn’t seemed interested in celebrating her newfound glory after the battle was through. Perhaps she’d been mourning a lost love.

“We all grieve, m’lady,” he said as gently as he could, “but we must learn to move forward.”

Arya didn’t turn, only gripped the windowsill. “I’ve been moving forward for two years, Ser Davos. It turns out that if you go far enough forward, you end up in roughly the same place. What with the world being round and all.”

There was something she wasn’t saying, but he could tell it was not the time to pry. He might ask her again, if she ever allowed him in a little closer. For the moment, he turned the topic back to safer ground.

“Well, Gendry’s completely refused to move forward. He never says a word to me about his girl, but he won’t even pretend to consider taking a wife. Whoever she was, he still carries a torch for her.”

“His feelings have never wavered.”

Davos looked back over at the King. That time, he wasn’t so vacant. He stared right at his sister, and she stared right back. His brows were slightly furrowed, her lips slightly parted, but other than that they were impossible to figure out. Those Starks, inscrutable to a man.

“And I feel for him, really I do,” said Davos, drawing both of them back to him. “I’m not just thinking of the politics. I worry he might be lonely. So now I have to take it upon myself to argue with him, yet again, about trying to find someone.”

“Perhaps Arya could help,” the King suggested.

What?

“Your grace, I’m not certain I understand,” Davos said after a pause. “How do you expect the lady to assist?”

“She’s very determined,” the King stated, shifting casually in his chair and staring off into space once more. “If you took her with you to the Stormlands, she could help argue and convince Gendry to marry.”

Davos thought back to the Battle of Winterfell, the way she had ploughed her way through hordes of the undead up on the battlements, as if the Warrior and Stranger both had joined hands to make a perfect fighter. That was one determined woman, all right.

“I don’t see how it could hurt,” he decided, giving the table a hearty slap. “Have you ever been to the Stormlands, m’lady? They are breathtaking, if I do say so myself. Even if we can’t convince Lord Baratheon, the trip would be worth your while.”

Arya lifted one corner of her mouth. She seemed amused, but he couldn’t say for certain it was by his offer. Still, she nodded.

“Very well. Should we set out tomorrow?”

“Only if you don’t mind,” Davos hurried to promise, raising one patient hand. “It’s no bother waiting if you prefer to spend a few days with your kingly brother first.”

The King and his sister locked eyes. To Davos’s surprise, there was something approaching tenderness in his face, instead of the ever-present blankness.

“This isn’t where you belong,” King Brandon pronounced, and he sounded almost wistful, like a loving brother instead of some kind of mystic bird-tree. “The sooner you go, the better. Do not waste another day.”

Arya pushed away from the window, strangely urgent, and went over to the King, bending down to wrap him a hug. He didn’t hug her back, but he closed his eyes and let his head rest on hers. The scene was so unexpectedly, uncharacteristically affectionate that Davos dropped his gaze to give them some semblance of privacy. Arya whispered something in her brother’s ear, too quiet for Davos to catch, and he took that as his cue.

“It’s settled then,” he announced, moving for the door. “First light isn’t too early for a sailor like you, I trust?”

It wasn’t. They set out early and travelled light, making good time, so that now, a scant week after Arya rode up to the Red Keep alone, she and Davos ride up to Storm’s End together.

She watches the castle intently as they near it, barely blinking.

“An interesting structure, isn’t it?” Davos comments.

Arya stares at him as if she didn’t hear a word he said, but after a moment her mind must catch up because she nods. “I’ve never seen one like it, with the single tower. It’s quite a sight.”

“They say that it was none other than your ancestor, Bran the Builder, who put it together. Your coming here must be fated,” he jests. He doesn’t much believe in his own words, but he’s hoping to put a smile on her face, and he succeeds.

They ride up to the walls in silence after that. Will, the young guard at the gatehouse, starts to greet Davos with a familiar smile and a wave, but his face falls when he spots Arya at his side.

“Seven hells, Ser Davos,” the lad swears under his breath. “You haven’t actually gotten so desperate that now you’re trying to _surprise_ the Lord with a woman, are you?”

“Of course not!” Davos cries, appalled.

“Only the last time you were here, I heard you were on at him about marriage, and he was in a mood for a week after. I don’t know what he’ll do if you try ambushing him with a bride.”

“She’s not a bride, she’s Lady Arya Stark,” Davos scolds.

Will’s eyes go wide. “Arya Farscope? Really?”

He turns to her eagerly, receiving a patient nod of acknowledgement.

“Just you wait till the old family hears about this,” he gushes. “Me dad was a sailor once, and when he hears I met you, he might just keel over with jealousy. Oh, I’m Will, m’lady.”

“Well, Will,” says Arya, unruffled, “I wouldn’t want his death on my conscience. Perhaps while I’m here, I could meet him too. Does he live in town?”

“Are you being serious?” The young man’s mouth hangs open. “Oh, that would be very good of you, m’lady, very good indeed. I can’t tell you what it’d mean to him. How long will you be staying at Storm’s End?”

Arya looks up at the tower, and then back at Will. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll be sure to stop by, I promise.”

Will, in between babbled thanks, calls out ahead about the visitors and their names, and the names are repeated farther and farther like a beacon. With one last burst of gratitude, Will waves them through, and they ride into the grand courtyard of Storm’s End, dodging bustling labourers and scaffolding. They’re in no rush, so they dawdle as Davos points out a few different spots that are being rebuilt or that he thinks she might find interesting.

They finally clear the courtyard and ride up to the main keep. As they dismount and hand their reins off to some swift-footed stable boys, Davos juts his chin towards the doors.

“News travels quick around here, so I expect Lord Baratheon will have heard we’re here by now. He’s likely to come out and greet us himself.”

Arya nods but doesn’t look at him, focusing instead on adjusting her jerkin. Her hands shake a little as she does it, and she keeps shifting in place.

For a moment, Davos is confused. This is the woman who stabbed the Night King and sailed around the world before anyone knew it could be done. How could meeting the Lord of Storm’s End have her jumpy?

And then, faster than his old head can keep up with, things start falling into place.

Could she be—?

The doors fly open and Gendry rushes out. No, ‘rushes’ isn’t the right word.

Gendry _runs_.

He runs like his boots are on fire and comes to a sudden stop barely a couple paces from them, his eyes wild and his breath fast. He doesn’t seem to notice Davos is present, or anyone else in the courtyard.

He only speaks one word, but it falls from his lips like a prayer.

_“Arya.”_

-

Gendry has been fantasising about Arya coming back to him since the morning he woke up with a hangover, a lordship, and the gut-churning awareness that he’d fucked up the best thing that ever happened to him.

At Winterfell, he imagined her changing her mind, seeking him out and promising to wed him and go south with him. He entertained similar hopes when he saw her again at the summit where Bran Stark was acclaimed as king. He tried catching her eye, hoping to see some softening, some tender, unspoken agreement to be together.

Nope. She left instead.

And over the next two years, he’s sustained himself on the hope that she’ll come back. He’s dreamt of her sailing (carefully) into Shipbreaker Bay or sneaking up on him just because she could, with a sly smile and a _yes_. Maybe she’d send word to him from wherever she was in the world that she was willing to be with him if he only gave everything up and ran to her side, an offer he’s ashamed to say he’d take in a heartbeat. Or maybe she’d let one of her royal siblings arrange a marriage, and she could pretend to the world that it was a political alliance if that would preserve her pride. He wouldn’t care.

(And yes, there have been plenty of dreams that she might simply _appear_ in his chambers late at night, and together they’d celebrate her return, loudly and vigorously, until the break of dawn. Don’t you dare judge him. He hasn’t had sex with anything but his own right hand in two years.)

When he got word two months ago that she had finally returned to Westeros and was in Oldtown at that very moment, the dreams of her came hard and fast. He waited for some announcement, for a summons, a raven, for anything that might indicate she wanted to see him.

What he_ didn’t_ expect was for her to ride up to Storm’s End alongside Davos, who very obviously has no idea what she means to him. He didn’t expect her to nod, eyes as unreadable as ever, when Davos somewhat suspiciously re-introduced them. He didn’t expect her to sit down to dinner with the two of them, telling stories of her travels like she did with the maesters at the Citadel, or to bid him goodnight and agree to be shown to her rooms by his steward.

He didn’t expect her to be godsdamned _polite _to him.

How could she? What is he to her? Long before she ever climbed on top of him on those grain sacks at Winterfell, she was the person he cared about most in the world. They protected each other, risked their lives for each other, shared their deepest secrets. And now she walks into his castle like she’s little more than a grateful stranger, infringing on his hospitality, like he never asked her to share this home with him and be his wife.

He’s not just going to accept it quietly. No. There’s nothing much he can do if she’s really, truly finished with him, but he’ll have the words from her own lips. He’s earned a real goodbye, if nothing else.

So now he’s pacing in front of her door, trying to work up the nerve to knock.

She can probably hear him.

Fuck.

He might as well knock, then.

He waits five seconds. Ten. He wonders if she’s busy, or if she’s working up her courage, too.

The door swings open, and there she is. He can’t stand how nice she looks. She’s tanned from the sun, and her hair, tied in a loose braid over her shoulder, is a few inches longer. The candles behind her make her glow. Just his luck to be rejected when she’s prettier than ever.

“Can I come in?” he attempts. He can’t look directly at her; she’s as blinding as the sun.

She opens the door wider and stands aside. He walks in, full of nervous energy. He doesn’t know what to say first.

“Would you like something to dri—”

“Did you tell Davos about us?” he interrupts. Oh, look at that, he did know.

She stares at him for a moment, then shuts the door.

“You never did. Why would I?” she questions, voice even. Like none of this matters.

“You’re right, I never told him,” he agrees, folding his arms. “But then, that might have had something to do with the fact that you were never around for me to mention it. You, on the other hand, didn’t think it might be relevant when the two of you were riding to_ my home._”

She stares at him, not blinking, and then goes over to the flagon of wine, pouring a drink for them both. She sets his down on the table. He doesn’t move to take it; he really doesn't want to be drunk for this, on top of everything else.

“It wasn’t my idea to come here,” she says, sipping hers. “Bran suggested it, and Davos thought it was a good idea. I just went along with it.”

He struggles not to flinch. She just went along with it. On a whim. Two years he’s prayed to see her again, even once, and she dropped by because she had nothing better to do.

“I’m so glad Arya Farscope had time for me,” he grinds out. “It’s an honour to be a stop in between her adventures.”

She stiffens. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t say much at all, did you?” he accuses. “You didn’t say anything to Davos before coming to Storm’s End, and you didn’t say anything to me before leaving Westeros either.”

She puts her cup down abruptly, and some wine spills onto the table, unheeded.

“What was I supposed to say?” she challenges. “‘So long, don’t know when or if I’ll be back, I’ll write you a letter you can’t even read’?”

He sucks in a breath, turning his head away sharply. “Anything. You were supposed to say anything at all before you _ran away._”

“I did not run away.” She’s not so hard to read now. Her lips are a thin line and she’s turned slightly away from him. _Smaller target._

“You tried to sail off the edge of the world, Arya.” He laughs in disbelief. “You got lucky and made a great new discovery, but at any moment you could have been lost forever, and I’m the one who’s had to think about that every fucking day since you left. “

“I’m sorry my travels were such a burden to you,” she spits.

“And I’m sorry coming back to me isn’t fine and easy like leaving me was,” he shoots back.

She straightens, speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m not sorry I left.”

“I’m not asking you to be!” he explodes. “I'm asking you to be happy that you’re back, and you’re _not._”

“You don’t know a damned thing about how I feel!” Her fists keep clenching and unclenching.

“Yeah, that’s been obvious for two fucking years now!”

She doesn’t say anything to that. She swallows, and she blinks, and she doesn’t say anything.

His shoulders droop. Why are they here? Why are they like this? He’s terrified to stay any longer and say something he can’t ever take back. Even though he doubts it would make a difference.

“I’m going to bed,” he says wearily. “Welcome to Storm’s End, m’lady.”

He puts his clenching hands behind his back and bows stiffly. If she wants nothing but courtesy between them, that’s what she’ll get.

He walks at a measured pace until he imagines he’s out of her earshot, and then he storms through the halls and up the stairs, desperate to get to his rooms. His hands are shaking, his breath is stuttering, but his eyes are _not_ stinging. They’re _not._

He bursts into his room, leaning against the closed door and burying his face in his hands, before giving a shout and throwing the nearest table clean across the room. It crashes to the ground but doesn’t break. He doubts he’s the first Baratheon to throw this furniture around in a fury.

Scrubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, he crosses the room, picks up the table, and puts it back. The clatter has brought him down from his rage, but all that’s left is his sorrow, which is so much worse. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He changes into his nightclothes and climbs into his overlarge bed, but despite the exhaustion all the way down to his bones, he knows he won’t sleep tonight.

He tosses and turns for what must be hours, the booming thunder and the rain slapping against his windowpanes doing nothing to ease his mind.

He’s a fool. Why yell at her? She turned him down years ago. She never told him to wait for her. The opposite, actually – she said she wouldn’t marry him, and then she left. He saw her again at that summit, and she left a second time without a word, sailing off where he could never reach her. She really couldn’t have been clearer about not wanting him, and he’s the idiot who kept on hoping she’d change her mind and return.

He freezes, a thought forcing its way into his thick skull as he turns onto his side.

She _did_ return.

He’s always believed the worst possible thing would be that she’d be lost at sea. Or maybe she’d find some far-off land more to her liking and put down roots there; if she did that, it really would be over between them.

She hasn’t done that. She’s in Westeros. She’s in his bloody castle.

What the fuck is he doing? Arya Stark is here, in his home, under his roof. Two years he’s waited for her to come back to him, and now she has, and he, what, he shouted at her and went off to bed alone? Because she didn’t immediately fall into bed with open legs and a smile? He’s so fucking stupid.

He needs to talk to her. He has a second chance and he can’t let himself squander it. All he has to do is go find her and say he’s sorry. He’ll beg if he has to. On his knees if need be. He just can’t let her leave without doing everything in his power to win her back.

He nods to himself. Yes, he can do this. He _can_.

In one quick movement, he shoots up and rushes to the edge of the bed, ready to jump out and run.

And he nearly collides with Arya.

She’s snuck in all silent in that way she does. She’s standing next to his bed, hair loose, clad in only a nightshirt, and she looks as surprised as he feels.

“What,” he swallows, trying very hard not to panic or kiss her, “what are you doing here?”

She blinks a couple times and shakes her head. “There’s a storm out.”

He looks to the window and back at her. “Yeah. Happens a lot around here.”

“It was too loud in my room,” she says, clearly deciding to maintain her own dignity like she hasn’t snuck into her former lover’s chambers late at night. “I thought I’d try sleeping here instead.”

He wants to say something. Something clever, something tender, anything at all. Instead, he scoots back and pulls back the covers in invitation, staring at her all the while.

She climbs in, still pretending this is all normal, and the two of them lie back, a foot apart, staring up at the ceiling.

When he’s pictured taking Arya to bed, it certainly wasn’t like this.

The silence is excruciating, yet Gendry is terrified to break it. Arya does instead.

“This bed is just obnoxiously big,” she comments.

He tilts his head left and right to take it in. He’d thought the same thing when he’d first moved in. The whole thing is probably ten feet by ten feet, and the wide empty space of it has taunted him many a night. He finds himself wishing it were some rickety little cot, small enough that he and Arya would have to curl up close just to fit.

“It is, yeah.”

“I wonder how many people you could fit in this thing,” Arya muses.

You could get half a dozen people in here at once, easily. It’s taken a lot of work not to picture the orgies his ancestors have probably had in this very bed.

She’s pretending it’s just a casual thought, but he can hear the question behind it, and his heart speeds up.

“I don’t know.” And, as clearly as he can, “Too bad I’m the _only_ person who sleeps in this bed.”

She doesn’t say anything, but her breath comes out just a little easier after that. Her little sigh of relief clearly manages to drive him insane because he somehow finds the mad courage to reach over and take the hand that’s lying at her side. She lets him.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he confesses into the night air. Her hand trembles a little in his. He gives it a quick squeeze.

“That was stupid of you,” she answers, but there’s something almost soft in her voice.

“Yeah, well, I’m stupid,” he agrees easily. “Always have been. I don’t know how to use a fork or stand sideways—”

“Sideface.”

“You see?” He gets a little laugh for that one, and it fills him with hope. “And I couldn’t stop thinking of you or hoping you’d come back someday.”

Arya stays quiet for a long, long moment, and Gendry isn’t sure if he’s gone too far. Finally, she takes their joined hands and pulls them onto her stomach, brushing his knuckles against the ridges of her scars through her nightshirt. There’s something unspeakably intimate in it, and his breath catches.

“You never asked me how I got these.”

He can tell she’s trying hard to keep her voice level. What’s hiding behind that fake calm?

“I didn’t think you wanted to tell me,” he offers cautiously.

“You were right. But now…”

He strokes a thumb against the back of her hand. He desperately wishes she’d let him in.

“What do you know about what happened to me after Beric and Thoros sold you to that witch?”

“I know you went with the Hound for a bit.” He remembers her appearing in that forge at Winterfell, and he can’t help a proud smile. “Until you robbed him and left him to die.”

He looks over, and in the gloom he can see her nod.

“Yes. But after I left him, I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. I found a ship captain. I asked him to take me to the Wall, to Jon, but he said no. He was sailing back to Braavos.”

“Braavos?” That stirs something in him, but he’s not sure what.

“You remember Jaqen H’ghar?”

That creepy shit who agreed to get Arya and them out of Harrenhal? “I do.”

“Before we parted ways in the Riverlands, he gave me a coin, and said if I gave that to any Braavosi, they’d take me to Braavos with them. Once I was there, he could teach me everything I needed to know to wipe out the people on my list.” She lets out a bitter laugh.

“So that’s where you went? Braavos?” He never trusted Jaqen for a second. The thought of him looking after young Arya makes him uneasy.

“You ever heard of the Faceless Men?”

His brow creases in thought. Yeah, the name’s familiar. Two of his bannermen hate each other, and when one of them started shifting some of his gold and lands, people joked he was selling everything he had to send a Faceless Man after the oth—

Oh. Oh no.

He doesn’t answer, can’t answer, but he’s sure she hears him swallow the lump in his throat.

“Yeah. That’s where I went.”

“Arya.” What can he say to that?

“I wasn’t Arya when I was there. The man – his name isn’t Jaqen, he hasn’t got a name – the man told me to be one of them I had to become no one. No name, no family, no home. Had to give up on my list, throw away my clothes and my silver.” She juts her chin out. “But I kept Needle. I hid her away so they wouldn’t take her, but I knew where she was and how to get to her. So I guess from the beginning, I was bad at being no one.”

“You’ve never been no one,” he whispers urgently.

She turns to look at him for a second, and her eyes are far too grateful.

It’s only the truth. Even when she was Arry the orphan boy, she was Arya Stark down to her bones. No strange-talking cunt could ever take that away from her.

She turns back, watching the ceiling again. “Well, that was the problem. I couldn’t stop being Arya. They wanted me to murder Arya Stark so I could be one of them, faceless and free of all desires, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop being me.”

“Good.” He loves her. No one has any bloody business trying to get rid of her.

“Not too good. It meant I failed at being faceless. I couldn’t give up on my list, I couldn’t stop thinking of getting back home, and I couldn’t murder someone who’d never done a thing to me.”

“Which one was it that sent them over the edge?” he wonders. He knows she’s building up to how she got her scars and he can’t stand it.

She smiles without any joy. “The last one. Mostly. They sent me to poison a woman, but I talked to her first, and she was kind to me. Invited me to join her mummers’ troupe. I hadn’t had any kindness since they stole you away from me.”

The thought breaks his heart. Arya needs kindness, even if she won’t ask for it. “So what did you do?”

“I stopped her from drinking poison, told her who hired me, and ran.” She rolls her eyes. “I was so fucking stupid. I thought I could take Needle and run back home where they couldn’t find me. I was wrong. They did find me.”

She takes their hands and brushes them against her stomach again. His eyes fall shut.

“Jaqen?” He hates him. He hates him, he hates him, he hates him.

“No. Not personally. He sent another girl from the House. It’s lucky I’m so good at pissing people off. She wanted to draw it out and make me suffer, so I had time to get away. If she’d just been quick, like an assassin should be, I’d be dead.”

Is it her hand shaking or his? He raises them both to his mouth, pressing a faint kiss to them. What sort of life has she lived, that getting tortured by an assassin is her idea of _lucky?_

“I survived,” she says, though she doesn’t make that sound like much of an achievement. “I killed her, told that man I was Arya Stark, not no one, and I went home. Only I’m not sure I told the entire truth.”

“You _are_ Arya Stark,” he insists.

“Sure, but what does that mean?” she counters. There are actual tears welling up in her eyes, but her voice is mostly level. “They taught me to lock everything away, all my fear and love and pain. The Hound did too, though I think he at least was honestly trying to help me. I thought I could do it. That I could go home and put on whatever face I needed to, with my family and my enemies.”

She turns her head to face him, eyes shining even in the dark. He wants to wipe them dry, but he’s scared to break the spell.

“And then there you were.” There’s a wet tremor in her voice. “And you finally wanted me like I wanted you. So I went to you before we died. I thought it could be like with my family, that I could be close to you, be _with_ you, but still keep a part of myself safe. But then you looked at me like that. You held me like that. Touched me, kissed me, showed me every part of yourself, and I didn’t know how to do the same for you. I spent years surrounded by people teaching me to stay alive by hiding myself away, and then you told me you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me. All of me. But I was so afraid that if I showed you everything I’d become, you’d know you’d made a mistake.”

She breaks off with a sob, a real actual sob, and he can’t stop himself from throwing his arms around her, pulling her close, tucking her head under his chin and letting her weep into his chest. He knew he scared her with his proposal, but he had no idea it was this bad.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chants into her hair. He lets her ride out her weeping, and when she settles down, he pulls back to look her in the eyes. “I’d never regret it. There’s no part of you I don’t love.”

She offers him a watery smile and shakes her head. “You can’t say that for sure.”

“I can,” he argues.

“You didn’t know every part of me. I’d buried everything so deeply that _I_ didn’t know every part of me. I didn’t know if what was deep down was something anyone could love, myself included. I wanted … I wanted to find all those parts for myself, to figure out how what my love and my pain felt like again.”

“Is that why you left?” he asks solemnly, focusing on tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yes. That was something I had to do for myself. Grief, fear — I needed to feel those on my own. And the good things too, the ones I wasn’t sure I was still capable of. Excitement. Wonder.”

“Love?” he asks, fear welling up in his throat.

She stares at him, and slowly, she wraps an arm around his waist, pulling herself closer to him as his breath catches.

“I met wonderful people. I cared for them, maybe even loved them. Not the way you’re thinking, though. Not one. That’s not what the trip was about.”

She leans her forehead against his chest and sighs into the small space between them.

“I meant what I said. I don’t regret going. I’ll never regret it. Even though it hurt you. If I hadn’t gone, I never would have rediscovered what mattered to me. Doing great things. Helping people. But most of all family. I want a family.”

“The Starks?” he asks, trying to hide his heart tearing in two. He doesn’t want to send her on her way, but at the same time he’s so bloody proud of her.

But she only shakes her head against his breast.

“I hate King’s Landing,” she mutters. “Jon’s not ready to see any of us again, and the North is full of ghosts.”

She doesn’t… Surely, she can’t mean—

“I want what I’ve always wanted, even though I spent so long stifling that part of myself.” She looks up at him, her eyes round, soft, and open like he’s never seen them before. “I want us to be a family.”

He surges forward, capturing her in a kiss.

A family. The two of them, a _family._

It’s hard to kiss her when he’s smiling so wide, but he does it anyways. He settles for a dozen quick, eager kisses before he pulls back just far enough to look at her. She’s grinning. It’s perfect.

“I love you, Arya Stark,” he whispers. He doesn't expect a response, but he can’t help saying it.

He gets one anyways. She tangles one hand in his hair and leans up to rub her nose against his.

“I love you too.”

Arya loves him. Arya wants to be his family.

He feels like he could fucking _fly._

He plants another hard kiss on her. She pushes against him to make him lie back so she can mount him, and he wants to, he really, really wants to, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he forces himself to slow their kiss, letting what’s between them simmer, not burn. At first, Arya redoubles her efforts, biting at his lips, sucking on his tongue, trying to drive him into a frenzy. She could succeed so easily, but he resists, keeping his grip on her gentle, his kisses tender.

He’s waited two years for this. He would’ve waited twenty more if need be. Now she’s his and he’s hers, and he wants to make this last, to make it a promise between them.

Eventually, Arya slows to match his pace, her breath easing, and the hands on his shoulders move to cup his face instead. She hums a little, content, and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

When she’s finally soft and pliant in his arms, he rolls them over so he’s hovering above her. He pulls back to look at her, hair spread out on his pillow, eyes shining. She smirks lazily and wraps her arms around his neck, leaning up for another sweet kiss, and then she lies back, biting her lip to contain a smile.

She’s his family. He’s the luckiest bastard who ever lived.

He loosens her arms around him to get up on his knees, pulling off his shirt and throwing it behind him. Arya props herself up on her elbows, blatantly drinking in the sight of him. Does he look as good to her as she does to him? That’s impossible, but what’s the impossible up against Arya Stark?

He climbs off her to take off his sleeping pants, and Arya, without looking away from him, reaches down to hem of her nightshirt and pulls it up inch by torturous inch, baring more and more creamy thigh to his gaze.

She pulls it up past her waist. She’s not wearing smallclothes.

_Fuck._

When she’s got it halfway up her chest, he takes hold of it and pulls it over her head, dropping it somewhere.

He takes in her naked body, her legs, her breasts, her muscles, her scars. He knows he’s got that same stupid look on his face looking down at her as he did two years ago when he was looking up at her. She’s everything he wants, and he’s almost afraid to make a move, sure that he’ll wake up alone in his bed again.

“Come here and kiss me,” Arya beckons, and it’s soft but still a command, enough to make his blood race.

He crawls back on top of her, settling between her spread thighs. She tilts her mouth towards him, but he moves past it to press kisses to her nape, her collarbone, the skin behind her ear. He wants to find the spots that make her sing, every last one of them. It might take years. He hopes it does.

He lets his hands roam too, and it’s pure delight when she returns the favour. She likes his arms, his back, his stomach. He likes the dip of her waist and the swell of her breast.

He drops his head down to her chest, kissing a scar across her ribs, tracing the underside of one breast with the tip of his nose until he reaches her nipple and takes it in his mouth. He sucks softly, enjoying the way it stiffens against his tongue, and then he lifts off it and moves his mouth to her other breast, looking up at her face as he goes, her dark eyes and her hand clenching the headboard. He gives the second breast the same treatment as the first, revelling in the soft sounds she lets slip, and he lifts a hand to pinch her other, still wet nipple, but she beats him to it, rolling the bud between two fingers. He can only watch for a minute, spellbound.

Finally, he lifts his head and reaches between them, finding her centre. He groans at the feel of her, wet and warm, and strokes her little bundle of nerves, earning a long moan. He slips a finger inside her, stroking her walls, making her squirm and lift her hips to meet his hand.

He withdraws the finger and brings it to his mouth, sucking her juices off it as her eyes widen. He closes his and savours it. He’s spent so long wondering what she’d taste like, and now he knows it’s the scent of pure woman, sweet and musky. He promises himself that later, he’ll eat her cunt like he’s dreamt about, but right now…

He leans in. “I want you,” he breathes, his mouth a scant inch from hers.

Arya slides a hand up in his hair, keeping him close.

“You have me,” she swears, and he finally kisses her on the lips, reaching down again to align himself. They both gasp into their kiss as he slides in.

He presses his forehead against hers, breathing through his nose. She feels so good and it’s been so long. He wills himself to calm down, no easy feat when Arya slides her free hand down to grip his arse, urging him in deeper.

He brings his hands up to grip her head, tangling in her hair, and with one deep breath he tilts his hips and rocks them into her, slow but unstoppable. Oh gods, the tight slide of her is like nothing else, how did he ever live without it?

He changes the angle of his hips, both of them moaning as he reaches deeper inside her, discovering a secret place that makes Arya writhe and whimper at a new pitch. He grinds his hips, rubbing up against that spot, and she tightens, legs clenching around him.

She pants, her breaths coming faster and faster as he moves within her, and he sucks a thumb into his mouth and then buries it between them, stroking her sweet little bud, making her open like a flower, peaking with his name on her lips.

“Arya,” he rasps, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort not to lose control and pound into her. This time he wants it gentle, with him crashing against her like waves. “You’re mine. Forever.”

“Forever,” Arya agrees, pulling him closer, even when they’re flush against each other because nothing could never be close enough. “And you’re mine. Until the last of our days.”

The words are familiar and the meaning hits him like a bolt of lightning to the spine. He comes with a bitten-off cry, pushing his hips against hers as he spills.

He hovers over her, watching the bliss slowly fade from her eyes, until his arms begin to shake and he pulls out, rolling onto his back next to her and reaching for the blankets to cover them up.

Arya doesn’t say anything. She just reaches out and takes his hand, the way he did hers earlier. He can’t help but laugh, stupid with love. She grins at him, the crinkle of her eyes nearly stopping his heart, then lays her head back, closing her eyes.

She falls asleep quickly, and Gendry wants to watch her till the sun comes up, but he’s so warm, so at ease, that he nods off not long after that, still holding her hand.

-

The sound of crashing waves is so familiar to Arya that for a moment she thinks she’s back on her ship and burrows deeper into her pillow.

Only that’s not a pillow.

She stills for a second, all her instincts and senses taking stock and deciding whether or not she’s in danger, before she remembers. She opens her eyes and lifts her head.

Gendry.

Despite the truly massive expanse of his bed – no, their bed now – they’d curled up together during the night, his arms wrapped around her, her head on his chest, their legs tangled. He’s warm and steady, and the dawning light shines on him, highlighting the perfect angles of his face.

She’s never woken up so nicely in her life. She’s going to wake up like this every morning for the rest of her life. She’s the luckiest woman in the wide, wide world.

She presses a kiss to the corner of his lips just because she can. He twitches in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. He’s sweet when he sleeps. She doesn’t want to wake him, so she slips quietly out of his arms. By instinct, he tries to hold on tighter, but she’s Arya Stark and no trap can snare her.

She crawls out of bed, finding her nightshirt and slipping it over her head. She takes a look around the room before wandering over to the window, unlatching it and opening it wide to take in the view.

The sun rises over Shipbreaker Bay, making the pure blue expanse sparkle. When she looks down, she sees the waves crashing relentlessly against the rocks below, throwing up sea spray and white foam. There’s none of the oppressive stench of King’s Landing or the overpowering perfume of Oldtown, only clean sea air.

This could be a good home, she decides. The giddiness that sweeps through her at the thought isn’t as foreign as it once was, but she can’t remember the last time it was powerful like this.

She hears a rustling, and turns to look over at the bed, leaning against the windowsill as she does. Gendry’s stirring, waking up by degrees, and he turns on his side with his back to her. She doesn’t make a sound, just admires the muscles he has there, too.

Gendry, half-awake, reaches a hand out, sleepily patting the spot next to him, searching for something. She sees the moment he snaps into full consciousness, head lifting from the pillow, body tensing. He stays frozen for a long moment, and then he strokes the empty spot next to him, slumping back down, defeat in the line of his shoulders.

She can’t bear to watch this.

“Morning,” she greets from behind him.

His head snaps around so fast she hears his neck crack, but if it hurts, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Arya.”

She’s heard plenty of people say her name like a curse, but she doesn't think she’ll ever get tired of the way he makes it sound holy.

“Gendry.”

“I thought,” he rasps, voice still hoarse from sleep, “I was so scared it was just another dream.”

Another dream. Has he dreamt of this before? How many mornings has he done the same thing, mourning the empty place beside him?

He’s not going to do that anymore. She won’t allow it.

For now, she beckons him over, and he comes in a daze, naked and beautiful. When he stands in front of her, she leans up on her tiptoes and puts her hands on the back of his neck, pulling him down to eye level.

“We’re family,” she reminds him. “You’ve promised me, so don’t think you can dance your way out of it by pretending it was all a dream.”

He laughs and kisses her deeply, grabbing her thighs to lift her up onto the windowsill and stand between her legs.

“You've promised too.” He chuckles, sneaking a kiss. “A solemn oath from a Stark. You people never go back on those.”

“Never,” she confirms. She leans into him and tries to chase his lips as he pulls back.

“Let’s seal it with a kiss,” he suggests, beaming as if he’s not the one standing too far away.

“I agree.” She tries to tug him back to her, but he’s sneakier than she gave him credit for and dodges her hands before sinking down to his knees.

Her eyes go wide.

“A kiss,” he murmurs into her thigh, running a hand on the outside of it. “I’ve been wanting to give you a kiss like this. Can I?”

She nods, still wide-eyed. She’s heard about this. She’s pictured Gendry doing it to her. She never really appreciated how good he’d look with his dark head between her thighs.

He settles in, hooking her legs over his shoulders. She braces her hands against the edges of the window frame.

He kisses a trail up her leg, leaving a sucking, biting kiss on the tendon at the crease of her thigh, before turning to face her. She can feel his hot breath against her. She pulls up her nightshirt so she can see him clearly as he moves in, and then there’s the flat of his tongue against her, licking a long stripe as her fingers clench around the window’s stone frame.

She shifts by instinct, but his hands tighten around her hips and hold her close to him as he explores her with his mouth. The licking of her inner lips, the way he flicks his tongue across her bud, it all pulls sounds from her. Little whimpers at first, high-pitched with the effort of holding them in, but when he looks up at her with his brilliant blue eyes and sucks hard on her bundle of nerves, her lips fall open and a guttural moan comes out.

He rewards her for that, moving down to slide his tongue inside her as he brings his thumb around to toy with her. She gives up on trying to watch him after that, throwing her head back and letting go of her nightshirt to grab hold of Gendry’s hair. She’d been so fucking happy when she caught sight of Gendry in the courtyard of Storm’s End and saw that he’d grown his hair back out, thick and black, perfect to fulfill every dream she’s ever had of running her hands through it. Now she uses it as an anchor, probably the only thing keeping her from falling out the window as she forgets everything but the way he’s lapping at her.

He moves his hand, bringing two fingers inside her and then crooking them, building up that unbearable pressure at the same time as he fixes his mouth on that bundle of nerves and sucks, and she’s not just gripping his hair anymore, she’s pushing him against her, willing him to do more, to stroke faster, to suck harder, to make her come _oh gods she needs to come_.

She thinks she says that. She’s aware she’s talking, and there might be begging, and there’s Gendry’s name and a lot of _fuck_s and she might tell him she loves him at one point but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except his mouth and the way he’s using it on her, for her, _against_ her. She bucks her hips against his face, and he takes it eagerly, pulling her further and further in until with a scream, she falls apart on his tongue.

She takes in lungfuls of air as she comes down from her high, the throbbing in her cunt not helped by Gendry still working her, but she tugs his hair and whines, shifting back until he finally stops. He rises to his feet, clearly taking pleasure in running a hand over his slick, shiny chin.

“That’s a promise sealed, then,” he whispers in her ear, and she shoves his shoulder until he helps her down onto suddenly weak legs.

“Don’t be smug,” she warns him, but as he brings them over to the washbasin to rinse his face and her thighs, he’s very clearly as pleased with himself as she was with him a minute ago.

When he’s done, she points to his sleeping pants on the floor, and he has the audacity to pout at her before pulling them on.

“Dunno what the point of putting them on is,” he grumbles before settling his arms around her waist. “I figure we ought to spend the day doing things that don’t need any clothes at all.”

The tone of his voice and the bulge pressing into her stomach are meant to be invitations, but Arya suddenly finds herself utterly fascinated with tracing the line of his bicep instead.

“I don’t know about that,” she says, trying to sound casual. The Waif would be horrified at how badly she fails. “I think it would be a good idea to spend some time preparing.”

“Preparing for what,” Gendry mumbles into the curve of her neck.

“For the wedding,” she hazards.

Every muscle in Gendry’s body tenses against her. “The wedding?”

“Yeah.” Her mouth is so bloody dry. She tries to swallow nothing. “I don’t see the point in holding off for a big ceremony full of people we don’t like. The godswood tonight after sundown would serve just as well.”

“Arya.” He’s trying very hard not to let his voice go heavy, she can tell. “Are you by any chance talking about _our_ wedding?”

She finally looks up at him. There’s fear and wonder in his eyes. “You still want to, don’t you?”

“I—” he cuts himself off. “Do _you?_”

“I came back. I told you I love you. I promised to be your family and stay with you forever,” she lists, not quite breathing. “What did you think I meant?”

“Really?” Hope lights him up better than the rising sun ever could.

“I wasn’t ready last time,” she says, holding him by his elbows. “I’m ready now. No sense in waiting. Let’s get married tonight.”

She barely gets the words out before he crashes against her, laughing in between sloppy, perfect kisses. She giggles and answers them as best she can.

She’s so lost that she doesn’t even notice any other sounds until the peremptory knock, the door opening, and a low, gentle voice.

“Are you up, my boy? I wanted to talk to you about—”

Gendry and Arya break apart to see Ser Davos taking them in – their minimal clothing, their swollen lips, their stupid grins, their arms around each other.

He looks between them, and then he focuses on Gendry with a long-suffering expression.

“Either you’ve completed your mourning period very abruptly,” he suggests, dripping sarcasm, “or perhaps you may have misled me when you allowed me to believe you had an ill-fated sweetheart in Winterfell or Flea Bottom.”

“Hey now, I never actually lied,” says Gendry at the same time Arya cheerfully comments, “Technically, I was in both those places.”

Davos sighs, running his bad hand over his face.

“I’d like to take a seat.” He raises an unhopeful eyebrow at them. “Are the chairs safe to sit on?”

“Yes,” says Gendry.

“So far,” adds Arya.

Davos pauses halfway into his seat, and then elects to ignore that and sits. Arya and Gendry move to join him.

“Perhaps you’d like to put a shirt on?” Davos suggests.

Gendry turns to rummage for it, and then he and Arya look at each other and realise at the same moment that she pulled on his shirt, not hers, this morning. After a second, Davos catches up.

“Never mind, never mind.” He waves it off. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

They do, covertly linking hands.

Leaning across the table, Davos guesses, “This isn’t new, is it?”

Arya and Gendry exchange a glance, unsure how to answer that.

“No,” Arya finally confirms.

“And this isn’t,” Davos gestures vaguely, “just good fun? You’re serious about each other.”

“We are,” says Gendry, and he sneaks an excited look at Arya.

Davos peers at them. “Are you intending to get married?”

Gendry squeezes Arya’s fingers beneath the table. “Yes, yes, we are.”

Davos sits back, watches them carefully for a moment, and then breaks into a smile.

“Then I can only offer my sincerest congratulations,” he beams. “To both of you.”

He and Gendry stand, and he offers Gendry a hearty backslap.

“I do hope I’m invited to the happy occasion,” Davos says.

“Of course. I need you there. I heard about how godswood marriages work, and I’ve got to have someone from my side of the family to do the talking bits.”

Arya watches the offer register with Davos, and he struggles for words, grinning bashfully like a child.

“I’d be honoured,” he manages. “Really. I can’t think of anything finer. So when’s the big day?”

“It’s tonight,” Arya informs him, rising.

“It’s when?” Davos looks like he’s hoping very hard he’s misheard her.

“We’ve waited long enough,” says Gendry, heady with anticipation. “We’re not waiting any longer.”

“But weddings take planning,” Davos insists. “You have to invite the guests—”

“Arya’s family can’t travel. I don’t like anyone but you two. Everyone else can get the big news by raven.”

“You said you’re wanting a marriage in the godswood, m’lady. Stannis cut down the heart tree years ago.” Davos pauses, and everyone thinks back a few days, Davos raising his good hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Lucky the King had the foresight to send you a weirwood sapling last week, then, isn’t it?”

“He _knew?_” Gendry turns to Arya. “He knew this would happen a week ago and he didn’t tell us?”

“Of course he knew,” Arya says, shaking her head. “I know he’s the three-eyed raven, beyond all feelings and desires, but I swear he loves fucking with people.”

Davos gives it one last try. “There’s the matter of maiden cloaks. Embroidery takes time.”

“Brides stitch their family sigil on their maiden cloaks so that when the groom replaces it with his own, everyone knows she’s left her old life behind.” Arya turns and takes a step towards Gendry. “Do you expect me to give up my name and become a Baratheon?”

Gendry cups her face. “Never. You’re Arya Stark, and you always will be.”

She loves him. She really does.

She leans in for a kiss. Across the table, Davos harrumphs.

“Seven mouldering hells,” he grumbles. “Looks like we’re having a wedding!”

-

The maester hates her, she’s pretty sure.

“My lord, surely you understand that a wedding needs time,” he insists.

“I understand that I’m getting married tonight,” Gendry shoots back. Arya suspects this isn’t his first argument with rickety Maester Jurne.

“Practically none of the lesser houses will be able to attend with only a few hours’ notice. Perhaps House Mertyns of Mistwood, as well as—”

“What a shame,” Gendry interrupts, clapping his hands together. “Wouldn’t want to invite some houses and leave others out. That might cause an incident. Best to invite none at all and alert them all tomorrow.”

“But my lord cannot intend to say his vows in an empty wood.”

“There are plenty of servants here,” Arya points out. “They’re all welcome to come.”

Maester Jurne shoots her the look of someone too polite to glare. Well, she actually has been glared at by sellswords, assassins, and the living embodiment of winter, so she’s not going to lose any sleep over one pissy maester.

“And it must be the godswood?” He winces. “My lord has never been forthcoming about his religious beliefs—”

“I’m pretty sure the Red God is real, and I hate him.” Gendry doesn’t offer up more than that.

“Which is why we’re sticking to the godswood.” Arya declares.

The maester attempts a smile. Poorly.

“Then the godswood tonight it shall be.”

-

“Your uncle Stannis was a cunt.”

“No arguments here.”

“Davos told me he didn’t even really care about the Red God, but he still let the Red Woman destroy the sept and cut down such a beautiful old heart tree.”

“He did.”

“Because he was a cunt.”

“Yep.”

“Though not as big a cunt as the Red Woman.”

“Too fucking right.”

“She may have helped me defeat the Night King, but she was still an evil, raping, child-murdering cunt. And if the Red God is real, I bet he actually hates her.”

“I know I do.”

“But no matter how those two twats tried to destroy the godswood, they couldn’t. Look at this little baby. Just a sapling now, but a few generations down the line, he’ll be full grown. If you treat them right, weirwoods don’t die, you know. They can live forever.”

“Good. That’s a nice one.”

“It is, isn’t it? Hand me that knife.”

“What do you need a knife f—What the _fuck_, Arya?”

“Weirwoods need blood to grow.”

“So you slice your own hand open? That’s horrible.”

“Gendry, House Durrandon, your ancestors, were First Men. They planted the old weirwood. Do you really think eight thousand years ago, they used blood willingly given from a little cut on the planter’s hand?”

“… oh gods.”

“Old gods, to be precise. They don’t fuck around.”

“You terrify me.”

“You love it.”

“Yes.”

-

“Isn’t it bad luck for the bride and groom to get dressed together?” Gendry wonders. The sun is dipping low, and they need to start getting ready. He doesn’t want anything to go wrong.

“It’s bad luck for them to see each other at all on the wedding day,” Arya says absently as she rummages through his clothes. “You saw all of me this morning, and we spent the whole day together. I don’t think the last twenty minutes will make or break us.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks, craning his neck.

She makes a triumphant sound, producing a doublet and throwing it at him.

“Wear this one,” she orders.

He takes a good look at it. It’s the one in black leather with the grey claw marks. He wore it to the summit where he saw her last.

He cracks a grin, pulling off his vest to put it on.

“This one’s my favourite,” he tells her, buttoning it.

“Mine too,” she says, admiring him in it. “You wore it for me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

“I had to remind myself that it was probably a bad idea to fuck you in it right before I left.”

“Wouldn’t have minded if you tested that idea out,” he comments, winking.

“Yes, you would have.” She’s right. “But that’s what wedding nights are for.”

Oh, he can’t wait to be married.

“How about you?” he turns over her one pack, which she’d brought to his room. “You got anything nice to wear?”

“I didn’t really pack with my wedding in mind, Gendry.”

“You didn’t know we’d end up like this?” he asks, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“A week ago I thought you’d be married to someone else by now.” Her forehead wrinkles at the thought.

He kisses the crease away. “Now who’s the stupid one.”

She leans into him. He holds her for a minute, breathing in the smell of her hair.

Finally, he rouses himself. “Got a cloak, at least?”

“Right here,” she says, producing it.

“Me too,” he says, shaking his. He takes another look out the window. The sky’s turning dark. It’s time.

Her hand shoots out, reaching for his.

“Let’s go get married,” she proposes.

-

Arya stands at the entrance to the godswood alone. Gendry went in first to join Davos and the guests. She’ll start walking in in a moment.

The bride should be accompanied by a relative. Her father, her mother, Robb, and Rickon, they’re all dead. Bran couldn’t walk her in if he wanted to, and she’s not sure he’d want to. Like the old her, it’s not clear where Bran ends and the three-eyed raven begins; unlike her, there’s not enough of Bran left to want to find out.

Sansa isn’t a male relative, but Arya would accept her. Too bad her throne isn’t secure enough for her to journey south for two months. Arya will write to her herself tomorrow; bad enough to miss her sister’s wedding, but it would be worse if she read about it in the maester’s hand.

Jon could do it. Jon would do it. She thinks she would have liked that better than anything in the world, maybe even more than her father doing it. He always treasured her the most, and she thinks he’d be proud to see her marry, not for titles or alliances but purely because she loves a man and he loves her back. She thinks for a second of writing to the Wall, asking him to come see her, to meet Gendry again, this time as her husband. But she can’t. He can’t leave the Wall; maybe someday he can be pardoned, but not after two years. And he loved the Dragon Queen. Stories of the man she loves would only remind him of his pain and his guilt. She thinks she needs Jon, but she knows he needs time.

Right now, she’d even take Sandor Clegane. He’d roll his eyes when she asked, bitch and moan all the way across the godswood, and call Gendry a twat, but he’d do it, and he might even mean it. She wouldn’t mind having him around right now.

Instead she’s alone. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But standing in front of that blood-smeared little weirwood is Gendry, and he’s her family now. She’s not going to be alone again, and the thought is enough to make her start walking.

The modest crowd is made up of the very excited and confused servants of Storm’s End. Will the guard waves eagerly at her and points to a very old, stooped man she assumes his father, who waves in his turn. She gives them both a wink, pretending to be more confident than she feels.

She turns her head forward, looking down to the end of the aisle. There he is. She hasn’t dressed up, she’s barely brushed her hair, and he saw her twenty minutes ago, but Gendry stares at her like she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe tonight she is.

She reaches him, her heart pounding, but he smiles at her and she decides everything will be all right.

“Hello,” he whispers.

They’re not meant to say anything except for the ceremony’s vows, but the gods owe her a certain number of favours, so she whispers a “Hello” right back.

“Who comes?” booms Davos so all can hear him. “Who come before the god?”

“I do,” declares Arya. “I, Arya of House Stark, come here to be wed. I am a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, and I come to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes here to marry me?”

“I do,” says Gendry, for her ears only. He clears his throat and repeats it louder. “Gendry of House Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the South. I come to marry her.”

He grins.

Davos stumbles over the words she told him not to omit. “Who gives her?”

“I give myself,” she answer boldly, sweeping a look over the guests. “If he will give himself to me in return.”

Gendry nods eagerly. She doesn’t think he even realises he’s done it, and her heart melts.

“Lady Arya,” says Davos, “will you take this man?”

“I will take this man.” She took him for herself long ago, but it feels good to do it right, in a way they can both understand.

She extends her hand, and Gendry takes it with a shaky breath. Together they kneel before the sapling, which is beginning to sprout its red leaves.

Her relationship with the gods is difficult still, but she bows her head and prays anyway.

_A family,_ she bids the gods. _Him and me, and anyone else you see fit to send us._

Just to make sure it sticks, she thinks once of the Night King bursting into a thousand shards beneath her blade. No harm in reminding the gods they still owe her.

As one, they stand and face each other. He undoes her plain black cloak, handing it over to her, and then undoes his own cloak and wraps it around her shoulders, placing her under his protection, reminding her of a cloak he laid over them both the night she confronted and grew fearful of her love for him.

And then, like they’d agreed earlier, she reaches up and drapes her cloak around him in turn. He’s under her protection now, too, and will be for the rest of their lives.

They turn their heads to face Davos. The grizzled old smuggler is looking up and away, trying to blink away the tears in his eyes.

“It’s done,” he ekes out. “You’re married. You should kiss now.”

Married. They’re married. She’s somebody’s wife. And that someone is her surly, stupid blacksmith.

For the first time in her life, she’s so full of joy she can’t move, but Gendry can, and he swoops in for a kiss, holding her close. She tastes tears on his lips, and she thinks they might be hers. He smiles into her mouth and wipes her face so no one but him has to know she’s crying.

He’s already pretty good at this husband business.

They sit down to the finest dinner the kitchens could produce with half a day’s notice (she’s pretty sure the cook hates her too, but she has plans for those kitchens). A fairly tipsy Davos makes a speech and nearly punches himself in the mouth when he almost blurts out how he found them this morning. Arya barely tastes a bite or hears a word. All she knows is Gendry, her husband.

The nice thing about a wedding party full of servants is that not one of them complains when Gendry rises early from the meal, claiming – pretending – that he and his bride are tired. They don’t dare to suggest a bedding ceremony, which is lucky, since she thinks she could come down from her daze to break a few noses if anyone tried anything.

Yesterday, she found the climb up the tall tower of Storm’s End invigorating. Today, when these flights of stairs are all that stands between them and the marital bed, she deems the same lengthy climb to be a form of torture. She seriously considers inviting Gendry to seal the marriage in a disused hallway, but her bull is steady and stubborn, so he just drags her along by the hand.

When they finally, _finally_ reach the doorway to his chambers – _their_ chambers – Gendry stops cold and scoops her up in his arms, while she protests loudly and bats at him.

“I know the rules,” he insists, not giving an inch. “One of us has to carry the other. Now, I know exactly who I married, so if you want to be the one to carry me, you go right ahead.”

He raises an expectant eyebrow and bounces her a little in his arms to suggest he’ll let her go if she asks for it.

They both know she’s not strong enough to carry him, the great lump that he is. They also know that if she really wanted to escape from his hold, she could and would have done it by now.

She just raises her chin and rolls her eyes, surrendering under great duress, and Gendry pretends not to notice her smiling as he carries her across the threshold and lays her down on the bed.

He crawls on top of her and looks down at her, grinning like an idiot. Arya knows the feeling.

“We’re married,” he reminds her, his words chased out by a breathless laugh and a quick kiss.

“Not completely,” Arya denies. When Gendry’s eyes widen in alarm, she continues, “There’s one more rule. And if we don’t follow it, the whole marriage could be dissolved.”

“What?” A panicked Gendry searches her face for any clue.

Arya raises her hands to his shoulders, allowing him a comforting touch for all of five seconds and then promptly rolling them over until she’s sat in his lap.

She slides her hands down his chest, down his stomach, down, down, down.

“Do you know what ‘consummating’ means?”

She’s quick to teach him. And they do in fact consummate the marriage.

They consummate the _shit_ out of it.

Once they are definitely, thoroughly, irrevocably married, they lie wrapped up in each other, sweaty and panting, clothes thrown to the four corners of the room.

(That doublet has a few new claw marks on it. She likes it even better now.)

Gendry has his eyes shut, lazily stroking the back of Arya’s thigh where she has it hitched over him. Arya has her head propped up one hand, admiring the sight of him. He’s too fucking handsome for his own good. She makes a mental note never to let him crop his hair short again.

Suddenly, Gendry’s hand stills on her thigh and his eyes shoot open.

“What’s wrong?” Arya asks at once, curling into him.

He looks down at their tangled lower halves and then back up at her with guilt in his eyes.

“I wasn’t,” he stammers, and he swallows painfully and licks his lips, “I wasn’t _careful_. Not tonight, and not last night either.”

_Careful how?_ she almost asks, until she shifts in place and properly registers the sticky mess between her thighs.

Right, careful.

Gendry casts another look down at her legs, though the stains from his seed are blocked from view in this position. She catches the flash of longing on his face before he plasters on a smile.

“In the morning, we can go find Maester Jurne and ask him to brew you some moon tea,” he offers, clearly trying hard to sound willing.

He would, she knows for sure. He’d let her take moon tea for the rest of her life if she wanted to.

That’s the man she married: kind, considerate, and very, very stupid.

She moves until she’s lying on top of him, resting her chin on her hands where they lay folded over his chest. She slowly shakes her head.

“What part of ‘I want a family’ did you not understand?” she questions.

And Gendry’s smile is as bright as the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [@arsenicandfinelace](http://arsenicandfinelace.tumblr.com/).


End file.
